


Friends and (Mis)Fortunes

by BadassIndustries



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A day in the life of, Betaed, Canon Era, F/M, Humour, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 06:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/pseuds/BadassIndustries
Summary: On a nice sunny day in 1830, Bossuet encounters varied misfortunes and even more varied friends.Written for Bossuetweek 2018





	Friends and (Mis)Fortunes

Bahorel carefully dusted off his hat, put it on, and stole away from the lecture hall while more enthusiastic students distracted Professor Blondeau with questions about Roman dictators. Bossuet held the private theory that Blondeau had known most of them in person. He was certainly ancient enough to have been involved in the creation of Rome’s most boring institutions. Bossuet shivered. He would gladly give his hat to never be in Blondeau’s company again. And this was his good hat too, only mildly singed at the edges. Blondeau was always so severe on his poor students, merely because they found the decision-making process of the Roman Senate to be an extremely effective lullaby. Bossuet couldn’t help it that he had neglected Morpheus call the past few nights. Grantaire had needed cheering up the past weekend, and yesterday Bossuet’s neighbour’s forlorn suitor had mistaken their rooms and spent most of the night bonking on the door while crying his way through some truly regrettable poetry.

Bossuet’s landlady wasn’t very understanding about the mistake, possibly because her patience had already run out because of the pigeon business. So, since Bossuet found himself once more homeless, the cover of Blondeau’s droning on about glorification of roman emperors seemed the best option to get some sleep today. Bossuet preferred the Greek to the Romans anyway, in both their early democracy and their pleasures.

Once on the street, L’Aigle leaned against the wall to calm his racing heart after his narrow escape. The flower girl on the corner gave him a prospective glance. Bossuet immediately leaned back with more purpose. Girls admired a good, carefree lean. Bossuet smiled back, tipping his hat to her slightly. The moment he stood up to approach her, his luck struck, and her attention was pulled away. A fashionable gentleman strolled up to her, taking a nosegay and paying with a coin and a kiss to her hand. Bossuet’s thunder was stolen completely, but he did not mind it, for that dandified gallant was none other than M. Courfeyrac, flirt extraordinaire. They embraced in greeting, gleeful to be reconnecting after an extraordinarily long absence of two full days.

“L’Aigle,” said Courfeyrac, cheerfully tucking the flower in Bossuet’s buttonhole, “I have been positively distraught without your company. Say you’ll accompany me to a party tonight. Do you promise faithfully?”

Bossuet could only grin and nod before Courfeyrac embraced him again.

“And now I must be off. I’m to have lunch with some heavenly creatures, must run, but don’t forget about tonight!”

He dashed off in the opposite directing, calling out cheerful greetings to all and sundry. Bossuet watched him go with a smile. A party would cheer up a sad, Joly-deprived day considerably. Joly planned to spend his free time today making up with Musichetta, who had taken to pouting at him rather alarmingly. Bossuet took great care to never get in the middle of their quarrels, but he was quite sure this particular one could be solved simply by limiting talk of cadavers and spending the time saved complimenting and enjoying Musichetta’s excellent qualities.

Still, that left him with no one to have lunch with. But fate had taken her eye off Bossuet, because an half hour saunter through the streets of Paris brought him past a friend who was in dire need of a lunch companion too. Mostly because without one, the friend in question would forgo eating in favour of more work. His wanderings had brought him outside of the printshop Enjolras was just at that moment emerging from. He had the look of a man still wholly absorbed in his work, so after the requisite greetings which were politely parroted, Bossuet took him by the arm and led him to the nearest café.

He liked to eat with Enjolras, as he was not only willing to pay for a friend in need, but also completely unaware of the smiles of all the ladies around him. It made both for a pleasant focus on their companionable meal and for an absence of rivals if Bossuet felt like flirtation himself.

Enjolras must have been at stranger to this particular establishment, as the serving girl still tired to catch his attention. They were served the best cut of meat and better wine than they had paid for. Enjolras did not notice. He was of course unfailingly polite, but it was glaringly obvious that his mind was on other matters. Bossuet was sure he was still contemplating some seditious materials, the ink of which still lingered on his fine fingers. Halfway through the meal, Enjolras suddenly looked up, at last fully present once more.

“How are you, my friend,” Enjolras spoke in his usual solemn way, “I apologise for my preoccupation, I had pressing matters to attend to.”

That was the other reason lunching with Enjolras was a delight. Suddenly, and without provocation, he could come out with the most wonderful puns.

“Not at all, my friend. I could see you were busy printing nourishment for the minds of the hungry masses. But you must remember that the body is in need of nourishment too.”

Enjolras looked at him with that sly little smile that meant a truly awful pun was coming. “I think I shall consider that. I thank you, it is certainly food for thought.” He regarded Bossuet’s helpless laughter proudly.

After a few minutes more of such delightful conversation, their lunch was cut short by the arrival of a gamin bearing a note for Enjolras. The boy had already swiped some cheese off the table before they could offer him some, so they paid for the speedy delivery in coin and bread. The note was from "a tall, dark fellow at the medical school" which must have been Combeferre. The note said that if Enjolras was at leisure he would be glad to see him before the meeting later that day. Enjolras seemed to read more than just that simple message, and departed at once . Once more deprived of company, but with a filled stomach and sunshine on his face, Bossuet set off again.

As the  day was very fine, Bossuet decided to go to a park to enjoy the sun and hopefully find some congenial company. His feet brought him to the Jardin de Luxembourg which was full of bourgeois folk showing off their finery. He found himself a bench in the sun and sat down to rest his feet. A lady with the air of a vulture and her pretty daughter at her side looked at his shabby coat in marked disapproval. With a courtly bow, he ceded his place to them. The mother seemed to take this as a sign he intended to seduce her daughter out from under her eyes and gave him the fiercest glare of disapproval he had seen outside of the law school. Discretion being the better part of valour, he turned tail and ran. He walked for a while without knowing where he was going, except away from this frightening example of motherhood. His escape had brought him back to the Latin Quarter. Fortune had smiled and  even allowed him to keep his hat, even if his trusty old coat had gained a new stain from scraping past a mossy wall to avoid the carriage that seemed  set on running him over. Taking his narrow escape as a sign he ought to be indoors for a while, Bossuet decided to call on Musichetta to beg for some tea and possibly forgiveness for Joly.

He turned back to find the alley that was the quickest way to Musichetta’s rooms while avoiding the favourite haunts of some old acquaintance who had the sad habit of bringing up debts whenever L’aigle’s luck had run out. The sighting of one such inconvenient fellow necessitated a quick turn into an alley which was completely unremarkable save from the brightly patterned tights and pointed shoes hanging down from the low hanging rooftop that turned the alley into a dead end. The shoes kicked out vigorously, but failed to propel their owner onto the roof completely.

“Good day,” said Bossuet politely to the left shoe, which was in vain trying to get a grip on the smooth wall. The kicking stopped abruptly.

“L’Aigle, is that you?” came Jehan Prouvaire’s voice from halfway up the roof. Of course it would be Jehan who thought patterned tights were appropriate apparel to climb someone’s roof.

“What luck you happened come this way! You’ll give me a boost, won’t you L’Aigle? Since I do not have your wings to get me up on this roof?”

Bossuet grasped both of Jehan’s ankles and pushed firmly. With only the minor sound of breaking rooftiles, Jehan had gained his purpose. There was the sound of shuffling, followed by wretched screaming that did not come from Jehan and some medieval cursing that did. But Jehan came back triumphant, face appearing over the roof at last. There was a nasty scratch over his cheek, but the satisfied smile on his face outshone it.

“Dearest Bossuet, could I trouble you to catch me? I can’t climb down with this little rascal in my arms.”

Before Bossuet could protest he found himself on the floor with an armful of Prouvaire who was somehow pushing pointy limbs into all of his organs. On top of Prouvaire’s chest, wrapped in Jehan’s coat was the mangiest, most pitifully angry cat Bossuet had ever seen.

“See the poor thing, Bossuet, he’s shivering. He was stuck on that roof and yelling so mournfully, I just had to go rescue him. You don’t want a cat, do you?”

Bossuet took one look at the cat, which was sharpening its claws by tearing the thick velvet of Jehan’s coat to pieces and thanked his luck it was impossible for him to say yes.

“Unfortunately, I am momentarily without even a roof to call my own, so I could not take in any strays, being one myself. Quite impossible, you see?”

Jehan looked at him with pitying eyes, but soon attended to the cat again, as it had clawed through the coat and reached Jehan’s skin again. Bossuet took up his hat and brushed of the dirt to leave before Jehan could ask him again. He called out a cheerful goodbye while Jehan was still preoccupied. His buttonhole was sadly crushed, so he left it behind.

He reached Musichetta’s home without further incident. When she opened her door to see him, her face immediately turned suspicious.

"Loveliest Musichetta! Might a man take refuge in your parlour against the ravages of the weather?"

Her arms were still crossed, but her face was turned down to hide her smile.

“L’Aigle. It is a perfectly fine, sunny day.”

"So it is, but only because you are smiling at me."

The smile won against her resolve

"Very well. You best come in then. But don't think you'll persuade me to forgive Joly."

Though her words were firm, she had the air of a woman who'd rather like relent under Great Persuasion, just so nobody could say she had given in easily.

"I wouldn't dream of it. I am only an ambassador of my own desires and won't say a word about how Joly is miserable without you."

Musichetta ignored this completely, but there was a spring in her step, making her skirts rustle merrily.

Before long they were seated in her small parlour, tea before them and the shirts she was supposed to be sewing forgotten in Musichetta's lap.

"Is it really too much to ask for a little romance,  Bossuet? Just a cease in the of talking of organs on special occasions? And don't make that grinning face at me, I can see the puns about ' organs' bubbling up in you and I won't hear them. There is only one organ a girl wants to hear about when she's showing off her new stockings and that is the heart that is beating passionately for her."

Bossuet carefully refrained from saying anything about other organs. If he held it in, he might be lucky enough that she would make the joke for him.

"And there you go again with that stupid grin. Just because it makes you handsome doesn't mean it's attractive, m’sieur Lesgles. You are thinking of other organs I would be glad to hear of. That may be so, but let me tell you Bossuet, that organ has never been – and _will_ never be – the spleen."

After a while Musichetta turned to her sewing again so Bossuet figured he'd better excuse himself. The shirts were immediately discarded in favour of a long embrace.

"There," said Musichetta, from where she was cosily nestled in Bossuet’s arms, "You see what all this talking of corpses has done? Driven me in the embrace of another man."

They both giggled a bit.

Musichetta brushed a kiss over his cheek, caressing his face with her fine hand. She looked him in the eye with a solemn expression for a long moment. With a carefully careless expression she said:

"If you see him, tell Joly he has bought me far too many chocolates. If he does not want them to go to waste, he'd better come and eat them himself."

Bossuet felt his smile grow, which luckily for Musichetta's pride, she did not see, as she had pressed her face into his collar. Her curls were getting dangerously close to his nose, but he could not mind it. Happiness must have an outlet. When she stopped hiding her face, he put his hands about her waist and pulled her in to kiss her. By this afternoon, happiness would be restored between her and Joly and all would be well. After only a very few goodbye kisses, he was on his way again to deliver the good news, whistling happily.

He was making his way among the little shops and cafés, taking the time to peer longingly into every shop window. He was just bemoaning the fact that he has no coin in his pocket for elaborate desserts, when he suddenly got violently pulled into a side-street. Before he could think to defend himself, he recognised the chokehold. It was the same one that passes for an embrace when Bahorel is feeling particularly excited.

“Don’t make a sound and don’t move, unless you want a terrible fate to befall you.”

It was unmistakably Bahorel’s voice, just like it was his overinflated sense of dramatics.

“Bahorel, you are talking, so why can’t I? And why did you ambush me?” Bossuets complaints caused the arms around him to loosen enough to turn around. Bahorel looked positively frantic.

“Prouvaire has found the most frightful cat in the whole of existence and is looking for a friend to take the creature in.”

“I know that,” Bossuet interrupted him, “I was there when the cat was liberated. That is no reason to abuse my coat though.”

Bahorel released him, but only grew more frantic.

“Don’t you understand, man?” said Bahorel, shaking him. “He will pout at us both in turn, until we allow Mephistopheles’ housecat into the sanctity of our rooms. I saw what those claws did to Prouvaire’s coat, I shudder to think what it will do to my waistcoats. Not to mention my tapestries!”

Bossuet had indeed seen the glint of evil in the creature’s eyes, but he still did not see why this necessitated all this rough treatment.

“Why doesn’t Jehan keep the cat himself? He has room enough, if he bothered to clear all the manuscripts of the floor.”

“The parrot thankfully prevents him from keeping it. But you know he’ll look at us with that damp expression and coaxing words and before you know it you’ve capitulated to his every demand. The only thing to do is avoid Jehan until it is safe.”

Bossuet pondered this a while, inspecting the dirt and scrapes today’s excitement had brought to his outfit, which had been rather neat this morning. Luckily the worst of the moss was covering up the singe mark from that dance a few weeks ago, where the chandelier had inexplicably become undone and strewn a few lit candles were Bossuet was dancing an allemande. Everything had turned out fine, even though his dance partner swore never to speak to him again, as he did not notice the feathers in her hair had become singed and tried to compliment her on her unique hairdo. The lady was probably the better for it, being too respectable by fit in with Bossuet’s friends. An idea slowly started to dawn.

“You know,” said Bossuet, feeling inspired by other persons of regrettable respectability, “ I always felt Davide could really benefit from owning a cat. You know the fellow, I presume? Stupid curls and an unkind habit to bring up debts at the worst possible moment? I think a cat as lively as the one Prouvaire got hold of might be just the thing to distract him from those terrible habits.”

Bahorel’s smile came back in full force.

“What a wonderful idea! Never did like him much, with his insipid poetry. Always suspected him of being a secret Bonapartist too.” His smile carried the same glint of evil as Davide’s future cat possessed. “Yes,” he said again, “I think we can manage that.” And with a tip of his hat Bahorel ran off to catch up to Jehan, no doubt to convince him how long Davide had been secretly longing for a cat just like this.

Whistling, Bossuet turned his attention back to finding Joly. What with all the delays, it was late enough that one could reasonably expect the medical students to be freed from the operating theatre. He did indeed find Joly, making his way back from the school with great haste, scarf fluttering behind him. Bossuet increased his speed to catch up with his friend before he could fly away. For all that he relied on his cane, Joly could still reach incredible speeds.

“Jollly! Hold on a moment if you please,” Bossuet called out when he got tired of running. Bossuet preferred to move through life at a saunter, not a sprint. Thankfully, Joly stopped and turned the moment he heard his name.

“My dear L’Aigle! How good it is to see you on such a dismal day!”

Joly looked quite out of his usual humour and Bossuet resolved, with the generous application of alcohol, to bring his humours in balance again. He was quite aware that this was not accepted medical practice, but his method did not include any leeches and was therefore infinitely preferable.

Joly looked like he could use a hug and Bossuet felt that his efforts today certainly merited one too. The sun was already bright, but with Joly in his arms it felt a little warmer. Arm in arm they continued on their way, even though Joly resisted the leisurely pace Bossuet set.

“I am sorry I cannot keep you company for very long,” Joly said with a frown, “but I really need to see Musichetta and beg for forgiveness.”

“Dear Joly, no need to hurry. I already went to see Musichetta this afternoon.” Bossuet could not help but smile at Joly’s outraged gasp.

“You went to see Musichetta without me? When you know full well she’s mad at me and won’t admit me into her chambers?” His voice was angry, but he did not drop Bossuet’s arm, so Bosssuet figured he was still safe.

"Well yes,” Bossuet said calmly, “if a man can't have tea with his best friend's mistress, what would the world be coming to?" he squeezed Joly’s hand where it was resting on his arm.

“And I came not only for my own pleasure, but also to plead your case, as any good friend would do. And while she has not yet forgive you, you are welcome to visit her today to heal the breach.”

He stopped, making Joly look up at him in surprise.

“Joly, you do know that she is mad at you for bringing up morbid medical things at inopportune moments? I have been informed in no uncertain manner that if you wish to keep her heart, talk of all other organs must be restricted to the hospital.”

Delight and disappointment warred on Joly’s face. Happiness won, as it always did with him.

“Bossuet. You are a true friend and the kindest man I have ever known and I don’t know what I can do to repay you.” His sincerity was overflowing and made Bossuet feel at odds with himself. He was much more comfortable with sincerity from behind a closed door, or spoken over a wineglass.

“Well… I did not want to ask, since you’ll certainly want to invite Musichetta over, but well… It seems my luck has poisoned my landlady against me and as of this morning, I have no place to sleep.”

Joly’s eyes grew even larger, brimming with emotion.

“L’Aigle. You know there is always a place for you in my home and in my heart. However could you doubt it.” He put his hand on Bossuets neck to pull him closer. “If you had ever listened to my talk of organs, you would know that the heart has two chambers. That means that in my heart there is enough room for Musichetta to make her home and for L’Aigle to roost. Never doubt that, my friend.”

Bossuet felt a great welling of emotion, none of which he could express on the middle of a street.

“Very well,” he said, making light of the declaration he wanted to make in turn. “As long as you don’t expect us to actually share rooms. I don’t think my old coat would like to room with Musichetta’s sleeve puffers. Nor would her dresses like the cohabitation, I expect.”

Joly giggled at the pun and heavy sentiments made way for carefree happiness. They walked together to Musichetta’s apartment. Before they reached it, Bossuet looked over at Joly, who immediately looked back.

“Out with it, Monsieur Lesgles, say what’s on your mind.” Joly said it sternly, or as sternly as his smiling face allowed.

“Well…” said Bossuet slowly, “I was just thinking that Musichetta has already seen a great deal of me today and might take an apology better if it came only from you. Spontaneously as it were. And if I had some money I’d go and get some dinner while you wait, but with one thing and another I am completely out of funds.”

Before he was done speaking, Joly had taken his purse and pressed half of it in Bossuet’s hands.

“Here, get yourself a good dinner and I’ll see you at the meeting tonight. And no refusing this offer, it is merely the least I could do after you paved my way to Musichetta’s forgiveness.”

Seeing Joly would not budge, he pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and took himself off, leaving Joly to neaten his hair on Musichetta’s doorstep. He was quite certain he saw the curtains twitch, so he made sure to wave at the window before he turned the corner.

Joly had in his excitement, given him more than was needed for one dinner, unless Bossuet felt the need to be very extravagant. As he was sure this evening would fill with opportunities to waste money in very short time, Bossuet decided to call on the one person who could prevent him from spending all Joly’s money. A short walk brought him to the workshop Feuilly worked in just as it was closing. Bossuet leaned against the wall and braced himself to counter all Feuilly’s arguments against receiving dinner from a friend. Feuilly looked tired and in dire need of a good dinner. Carefully ignoring every protest Feuilly tried to make, Bossuet managed to lure him into a restaurant with questions about the book Feuilly had been reading at the last meeting.

They enjoyed an excellent dinner talking first about the affairs of the world and then about the affairs of the hearts of their friends. Their ways split again as Bossuet needed to change his coat if he wanted to have any hope of being allowed to actually enter the party tonight, but they promised to finish their conversation soon. After persuading Joly’s landlady to let him in without a key and changing his outfit to something less moss stained, even if it was more worn, he wandered into the Musain.

He found Grantaire at the bar, holding a one-sided debate against a supremely uninterested Gibelotte. With one arm around Grantaire and the other grasping a bottle, he moved them to the meeting room. Grantaire protested the rough treatment, but his wild discontent faded away into silence. There were chairs enough at their usual table, but they still chose to fight about only one. Pushing and pulling at each other until smiles had washed away all unhappiness from Grantaire’s face. Combeferre was there already, Courfeyrac by his side, both writing frantically and both, surprisingly, in correct evening attire. It seemed Combeferre would also be making an appearance at the party tonight.

Friends waltzed in, boisterously or quietly as was their usual habit. Bahorel carried Jehan on his back, meaning the hellcat was safely disposed of. Joly came in right behind them, smiling like the sun itself. He immediately turned to Bossuet and Grantaire, hugging them both elatedly.

He told them about his success with Musichetta excitedly, squeezing them both to punctuate every statement. When the tale was done, he settled on Bossuet’s lap, pressing contented kisses to his temple. Grantaire started to expound on the symbolism of the lover victorious, comparing Joly to several tragic heroes and using some truly inexcusable puns. He fell silent, the moment Enjolras came in, sombre but smiling and ready to start the meeting. This only made Joly laugh harder and press his face into Bossuet’s neck to stifle his giggles. This morning might have been a nightmare of terrible professors and unforgiving landladies, but this evening brought him a party to look forward to, a giggling Joly in his arms, Grantaire at his side and wine in all their glasses. Bossuet could not believe his luck.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a way to complain about having to study Roman Law in French and ended up being way too long. Thanks to Dèbora, who asked for Enjolras, puns and cats, and organised the week because Bossuet deserves more love.  
> Betaed by Sunfreckle, my darling dearest sister.
> 
> Please let me know what you think and thank you for reading!


End file.
